Sunday, 3 February 2013

the finger

Warning: Don't read if you're squeamish or eating or hate stories about sharp objects.

So there I was, chopping basil for my breakfast fritatta (which makes me sound pretentious but really it's just eggs with stuff in them) when all of a sudden I cut myself. Pretty badly. I ran to the sink shouting out "Cut! Cut! Cut!" while Paul casually enquired from the other room, "Is it bad?" "YES!!" I shouted and he came running - and he confirmed it with a "Oh my god."

I actually didn't cut into my finger too badly and it didn't bleed much, but I did manage to cut a good portion of my nail off. (Sorry.) It stung like buggery and sent me into shock. I've never fainted in my life and still haven't, but the world did go dim and dark for a minute and I had to stagger off to be sick. What a weird and terrible feeling.

The nurse said it was a nice and clean cut, but advised me not to look while she dressed it. I got a tetanus shot but no sticker or chocolate buttons. Rip off. Jack has dubbed it my "disco finger" because I can't bend it and I'm constantly pointing.

It's not painful anymore, but it's damned annoying. I can't type well with nine fingers (it really messes me up that I can't touch type properly) and I can't knit at all. All is not lost because I can still drink wine.

I think I prefer it when my weeks are uneventful and boring, to be honest.

The finger. Ouch.
The assailant in the background, not looking at all remorseful.

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